carousel

if only our wishes were as real as we'd like them to be, if only the pot of gold didn't melt when we awoke clutching the pillow, and we could be every bit as strong and pure and beautiful as we imagined when we described ourselves... there's always a gap between what we would love to be and what we end up being. would a trip to the other side of the world bring the happiness that seems so glorius from afar? would exotic strangeness still breathe it's allure once the fragrant air of mystery transforms into the pungent tangs of stale body fluids... when we look into the mirror to see a hundred stories written on our faces in tiny etchings and wonder... 'is that all there is?'
so to turn to fleecing the souls of life's most lonely could justify itself to anyone who had known the unflinching pinches of hunger in a crowded street... necessity can lend an awful authority to one's own single-minded survival... but one day survival succeeds into greed, and we all will join in the circus of consumption, whirling giddilly around the carousel of shopping bewildered and bewitched by the twirling lights, only to remember our once proudly borne soul once we fail and fall off into the gears and works below, wondering at last... was it a magic roundabout... or a treadmill? so remember your soul, you are a brother and sister to us all